


genesis

by APgeeksout



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Introspection, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 16:30:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5974123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Places of birth and re-birth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	genesis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fingalsanteater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fingalsanteater/gifts).



You were not born in the swamps.

You were born to jagged peaks and dark ravines, places where the skin of the earth is torn open so that its heart and bones can be picked over. Burnt. Used.

You were always different, but never in the right ways to make an escape.  Men born in that place, to people like yours, go down into the mines or off into the army. After you made your choice, they shipped you out to the desert.

You were unmade there. Sand and unmerciful sun and dry air leaving your lips sharp and cracked. The stale taste of your own blood always on your tongue.

Ranks of men who called you _brother_ but pretended not to hear the screams and whispers and howls that never, ever stopped.

When they sent you away, they said you were going _home_ , though you only ended up back in the place where you were born, no more right or yours than it ever was before.

That was where he found you, leaning against a sticky bar top, taking in lukewarm beer through still-raw lips. Glass sweating in your palm just as your body sweated beneath once-white cotton and the camouflage you hadn't yet shed.

"She told me you would be here," he said, his slow, deep voice quieting all the others, as though they recognized and bent before something darker and bigger and more dangerous. Blue eyes took your measure from beneath the narrow brim of his straw hat before he continued. "Waiting for me."

You wouldn't hear the name "Sister Abigail" until later that night - the first time he tipped your head to his shoulder and poured his history and longing and purpose into your ear and threaded possessive fingers into your hair - but you already knew in that instant that she was right: You were waiting for him. 

You have always been waiting for Bray.

You were not born of the bayou or the compound or the Family, but you were born for them.

You feel that in your bones every time you step out into the night air, steamy and loud with the noises of things living and dying in the dark.  Every time you defend what is yours (what is Bray's).  Every time he kisses benediction onto your forehead.  Every time he deems you worthy to take him into your mouth and prove your devotion.

You were made to carry out his ends, broken as you are. A warped tool, you are remade in his hands and reforged stronger by the heat of his skin against yours.


End file.
